


Ecdysia

by shamusandstone (theleaveswant)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/F, Latex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-30
Updated: 2008-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/shamusandstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three and Eight play many games together, but there is one they'd both agree is particularly special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ecdysia

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to wilde_stallyn for the beta.

There are games they play to please each other. Naughty Schoolgirl and Stern Headmistress, for example, they play because Three likes it. Usually she plays the disappointed authority figure, with her glasses and pencil skirt, and it is Eight who wears the tartan kilt and white socks, Eight who gets turned over a knee or the edge of a desk. Somehow even when the roles are reversed, as they occasionally are, Three always winds up the one with the ruler in her hand.

Sometimes they play Kittens, because Eight likes it. They do not need to dress up, although sometimes they do, in ears and tails and gloves with sharp fingertips. They cuddle and wrestle until someone bites too hard or scratches too deep, and then they lick it better and fall asleep purring.

There is only one game that both would agree they play because they like it equally. They haven't found a name for this game yet, though its rules are simple enough. It is a game like body-painting, but using colourful latex that goes on liquid and dries stretchy and smooth. They do not play this game often, which makes it all the more special when they do. Nor do they play for the same reasons, or reap the same rewards.

Three plays for the aesthetic pleasure of using Eight's pretty, slender body as a canvas and seeing her own body likewise marked and transformed by her lover's hand. She revels in the blank page, God in the moment before Creation. She delights in the first stroke of the brush: and then there was Light. She likewise savours the satisfaction of the job well done, admiring her work standing still as a statue so as not to smudge the bright shell as it sets, or perfecting that graceful stasis in herself. She plays too for the sensory pleasure, the conditioned-to-be-erotic stink that blooms in the room each time a jar is opened, the cold clean viscousness of latex swirling in the jar and spreading over skin, the flawless luxury of an evenly applied layer under her fingers. It is a rare and exotic peek into a world without imperfections, a world in which she does not live, and it leaves her peaceful and refreshed when the time comes to peel the rubber off like the shed skin of a snake. Every time it amazes her anew, the beauty of the person underneath.

Eight's joy is concentrated in the end of the game. She does not want to live in a perfect world. For her, the power of the game, the tactile pleasure and the emotional release, is in the juxtaposition between plastic and flesh and the way the artificial intensifies the experience of the organic. Raw wet latex is creamy like milk and sticky like blood. It sucks heat from her body to warm itself and feeds that heat back like a living thing. She thrills in the feeling of the carapace hardening, tightening on her body like the squeezing embrace of an all-over corset. Her skin cannot breath through the rainbow blanket, and in its excitement and claustrophobic panic it sweats, so that when it is time to destroy this ephemeral artwork, to grab the rubber exoskeleton by handfuls and pull until it rips or slice it off in ribbons with a razor or a fingernail, Eight gasps at the shock of a feeling she can only assume is like being born. She emerges like a butterfly from a warm wet chrysalis, trembling at the rush of sensation, cold air and rough hands pouring over her body every time like the first and dizzy from oxygen filling lungs suddenly free to expand. This, more than any game they've played with knives or choking, brings Eight to the edge and intoxicates her with the feeling of being alive or responsible for giving life to another.

This is the game they silently agree to keep secret, never to share with anyone but each other. Not because it is the strangest game they play or the one they most fear would bring disapproval from their brothers and sisters, but because it is too precious for anyone else to see. They keep their stash of paint well hidden and do not talk about it. They do not have to. Snakes and butterflies do not need to talk about their metamorphoses. It is their private rebirth, less impressive to watch than Resurrection but no less miraculous to undergo.


End file.
